Phantom faces at the window, phantom shadows on the floor
by thedevilsblogger
Summary: While away on trip, Sherlock falls into a coma. They take him off life support. [ Mostly based on the many RPs of cheekbonesandwittyremarks; upinmynest; sanguinenatasha; itsshortforharriet ]


AUTHOR's NOTE: This is mostly an AU. Please, do _not_ tweet this to Mark Gatiss or Sue Vertue.

This is an AU based off of my RP blog on tumblr ( my URL is the same as my username on here, if anyone is by chance curious). Some characters that have appeared in this have been RPed by my partners, upinmynest; sanguinenatasha; roguehunteralphonse; itsshortforharriet. These are the representations of the characters, and you should probably follow them. Love you Mandy, Kat, Dixie and Emma.

I'm mostly dedicating this to my now of ex-partner, cheekbonesandwittyremarks who played my companion part as Sherlock while I was her main John. It's also her 21st birthday soon and I felt the need to at least give her some form of present. Thank you, Lais for everything. You can find her now at 'theirishbastard' where she plays a mean Sebastian Moran or at 'entirelybonkerswatson' where she plays Christopher Watson, an original character for the Sherlock fandom. Her independent account is hedonistaimbecil. Plus this is mostly a '_so long, farewell; auf Wiedersehen, goodbye!'_

_- Alli_

* * *

John had gotten news from the official in Germany, about a ghastly accident on the way to the airport. Fatal, which he was taken back due to the fact that Sherlock was still in Germany. They had brought him back, and got him on life support in the hospital.

Two weeks, then two months, later three. He didn't wake up. John spent most of his time at the hospital, ignoring the calls to go home. He never gave up, and he ending up growing a beard.

They told him if he was still in the coma by the end of the day, they'd take him off of life support.

John watched with unease, hoping the other would wake up and was heavily hyperventilating, while Greg attempted to cool the soldier down from his neurotic panic attacks, while Mycroft spoke with the several doctors moderating his younger comatose brother. His eyes moist, not from crying but from refraining what was to come. They had asked him, - him! out of him and Mycroft, they chose _him_! - what was the best choice.

He asked for five last minutes, five minutes. He slipped into the room, with the comatose Holmes, hooked up to BiPap machines, trying to get him to breathe and wake up. He walked over slowly to the bed, and took the hand of his detective, giving it a squeeze even though he knew the other wouldn't feel it. He'd never feel it again.

He pulled up a chair, and sat beside the bed, just watching the comatose Holmes manually have to take air from the BiPap, trying to get him to breathe again. He bowed his head, and closed his eyes. "You're an insufferable bastard. I can't believe you left me alone for two weeks, I can't believe you-" he choked out, not attempting very little to hold back the tears.

"You were an arse, leaving me alone. I know you did it for my own safety but look at us now," he whimpered quietly, tears finally streaming. "When you came back, I was the one in the hospital bed. Now it's turned tables. Sherlock, I know I wasn't the best. I was your worst, I was an infidel bastard. I gambled a lot of chances, risks I was willing to take, damn it, why couldn't I of been more faithful? I know you can't answer, but why?

"But in these last few, precious moments, you should know that I love you. Jesus Christ, it's been you. After all this time. Jesus Christ, this problem's gonna last longer than the weekend." He remembered everything, from the cases to the proposals, to the intensely awkward sex. He remembered the scrawny teenage boy who stumbled into his workplace twenty plus years ago. He cringed at the thought, despite the crossing of paths later on in life.

He got up from his chair, leaning over and kissing him on the forehead. "Goodbye Sherlock," he sobbed. He left the room quietly, letting the doctors attempt to do more but it was hopeless. He was comatose, he wouldn't come back. It was all the same.

They disconnected him from life support five minutes later, saying it would be he wouldn't be waiting for any longer.

[[MORE]]

They (Mycroft, Greg and him) all went back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson stood in the flat, whispering to Greg that she made tea to try and cheer up the broken soldier. They took him off of life support, because they figured he was never going to wake up. They knew he wasn't. He crashed down on the couch, while Greg and Mycroft murmured. Mrs. Hudson brought him over some tea, and he sipped on it quietly. After a while, he grew tired of the constant murmuring. He grabbed the blanket he had used for the past few weeks and parted for his room.

He climbed up the stairs while Mrs. Hudson, Greg and Mycroft all spoke of arrangements. He went to his room instead of going to Sherlock's previous room. Their previous room, down the hall from the kitchenette, and from the den. He clambered into the bed, and hid under the blankets. He secluded himself under the blankets for a number of days, only getting out to get a drink of water, eat bitter food and take a piss. He showered twice in the six days he had secluded himself- and it was very quick ones too, just enough to wash the grime off- and crawled back in.

Mrs Hudson was worried sick about him, just like how she worried about him over the three year extent and she'd pop up every now and then to see if he was still breathing. Of course, he still was. Miserably, but he was.

He was surprised by the visit from his best American friends, Natasha Romanoff and Clint. He attempted to slam the door, when Nat kicked it open while Clint pinned him against the wall. "Watson, get a fuckin' grip of yourself!"

Nat and Clint stayed for a while, forcing a natural balance. John figured that Mycroft had something to do with the fact that they were there, his two best friends that never gave up on him and he never gave up on them. He had asked for so much from them in the past while, that he was even shocked to have them here.

Natasha didn't know how to make his favourite kind of tea and Clint ended up shooting the walls with his archery set due to his boredom. It reminded him of Sherlock. He would switch, from being miserable and faking a smile to having a real miserable frown to being happy. It was like Sherlock was there, without really being there. He was starting to lighten up, just a bit, until Mycroft asked him to write his eulogy.

Sherlock knew a lot of people and he liked very few so to say- only him, Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and few others, maybe.

So he wasn't expecting people to come. But as told by Mycroft, several people have responded to the wake. Names of people he didn't know Sherlock knew - Victor Trevor, and other people. He knew who Victor was of course, he only mentioned him quite a few times.

The funeral was on a Sunday. Harriet came by with Alphonse, who was dressed nicely for an occasion in which he didn't know the person, but figuratively Harriet dragged him.

John was getting ready, suiting up in his bedroom when Harriet knocked on the door. "Permission to enter, Doctor?" she mused weakly, trying to make light of the situation. He nodded, and she made her way over to him.

"You could never get used to the concept of ties." she mumbled, fixing his tie.

"Could never get used to funerals either." he deadpanned.

"John," Harriet looked up at her older brother and they locked eyes. His eyes started to moisten, and Harriet's gaze softened, pulling her brother into a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry."

He nodded, and buried his nose into her shoulder, attempting to find some reassurance. He nodded and pulled away, letting her fix his tie. She patted it, and tucked it into his suit. She took his hand, and squeezed it. Memories flashed of how many times she stood with him, through everything. She wasn't old enough to remember their father's death, but she stood with him through everything else. He recalled the time he punched some pervert for hitting on his sister.

They went down to the main flat, where Clint, Nat and Alphonse were all conversing. Clint's eyes softened, and he murmured that the car was around. They all walked down the stairs, meeting with Mrs. Hudson. Clint wrapped an arm around Tash's waist, and around John's shoulder.

They traveled in the car until they hit a church, something Sherlock would of snarled upon due to his Atheism, but would have no say. He entered the church and met the tall Victor Trevor, who introduced himself as an old friend and gave his condolences. He shook his hand, and went with the five to the front.

It was very simple and basic, people pretending to know Sherlock, Anderson saying dumb things like how John was his, and not the psychopath's. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing. He imagined a commentary from Sherlock, such as things like, 'Dull,'; 'Anderson why are you even at my own funeral?'; 'No Mycroft - don't tell them about my wishes to be a pirate!'.

When it was his turn to speak, he froze up and Clint nudged him in the rib. "Get up there, Watson," he reassured him. A soft, breathy exhalation escapes him and he looks a little more alert, as he is he stumbles up.

He gets behind the podium and exhales in contempt. He's nervous, though, and that doesn't escape the crowd's notice. He taps on the microphone.

"To some... Sherlock was a pain in the arse, a psychopath," (he paused and his vision glazed at the attendees Sylvia Anderson and Sally Donovan, who declared him as psychopath) "And a know it all who should shut up sometimes. But if you say that this man made no effect on your lives, well you're all wrong. He told me once, a very long, long time ago, that if Heros didn't exist and if they did, he wouldn't be one of them. Heros save people from fateful disasters. He made a slow disaster out of me, but he has saved me so many times I wouldn't know."

"He's been a friend, a rival, a schoolmate," his eyes met the eyes of Victor Trevor's and he grimaced at the thought that him and Sherlock probably hadn't seen each other in over, god knows how long. "And he was... He my best friend and my fiancé." he admitted in a staggered manner. He felt his cheeks flush and his legs nearly gave out and then Clint ran onto the stage.

"John, go sit down, I'll read the rest." he hissed at him, and Nat helped him off the stage.

"Well, I'm obviously not John-" he was cut off by a snark remark by Donovan whom he yelled at to shut up or get out. Everyone sat in shock and Clint smirked as did John, thinking about how thankful he was to have the hawk telling Donovan to shut up. "But I can tell you, what John and Sherlock had no one could match." he hesitated. "Sherlock was the best man John knew, and he may of broke his heart several times, what those two had was undeniable."

John sunk in his seat, Harriet smirking. She got up and stood beside his best friend, helping him understand the words a little bit better. Harriet ends up dumping the speech, due to Clint's frustrations with easy phrases. She ended up simply stating: "Sherlock didn't like a lot of people. He didn't like me very much, but yet again, I gave him a lot of reasons for him not to like me. But I can genuinely state that he was a brilliant madman who my brother took care of and vice versa." A few more people spoke, and then it was time to carry the casket out of the church.

John stood first, swallowing back all of his fears. He'd end up relapsing into his soldier mode, into a mode in which he was familiarized with. They played the Vitamin String Quartet's adaptation of "The Great Gig in the Sky" mixed with the original Pink Floyd song. He saddened.

They lowered him into the ground, Clint's hand firm on his shoulder. John's head rested on Harry's shoulder. For someone to watch the casket be dropped six feet under the ground and to never see that face again, John acted strong. He was dying on the inside, wishing that he was the victim. He wished he was dead.

The rest of the funeral party went back to the Holmes mansion, while John, Tash, Clint and Harriet all lingered. Alphonse stood far behind, holding Harriet's jacket.

"Come on, John." Nat urged him, as it was beginning to rain lightly.

"Nat, give him a second. John, we'll be at the car."

They all left, even Harriet who originally urged him to come with them, but Nat just pulled her aside.

He stood at the headstone like he did three years ago. He stared at the numbers '1977 - 2013' and grimaced. He bit the corner of his lip, and looked straight at the headstone.

"Three years ago," he started, thinking it was weak and decided to change "No, five years ago we met. Five years. Seems bloody well impossible, huh? Hmm, okay. I thought you were a lunatic.. when we first met. I still think you are a lunatic for going to Germany without your soldier to watch over you because I know you didn't eat, Sherlock. I'm angry, I really am- got to get that under control-, that you're dead. God, I had so much to say to you. I had so much and now I don't have that chance, shit. I am sorry I lost my temper so frequently. God, I'm sorry I smothered you. I'm sorry I am such a prat." He ended up sobbing and on his knees. "I wish it was me." he admitted.

Clint eventually grew to learn the fact that John was probably not going to leave the grave and went to go get him. Eventually he ended up getting the Watson up off the ground and pulled him into a tight hug.

"Oh John, I am so, so sorry you lost him again." he muttered softly, and pulled away. His eyes softened and he wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "I know you're miserable and blaming yourself, but just remember that we're here for you. Whether its about this or even you lost your job. John, you're one of my best friends. I've got your back."

John nodded and felt a little relieved. "I've got your back too, Clint" he pulled away and stopped in front of him "Listen, lately, I've just been feeling so... dysphoric." he uttered in dismay. He felt as if he was letting down his best friend, the one he accidentally married by mistake and the one he asked if he could help him out.

They attended the wake at the Holmes house, where he slipped outside.

"Maybe one day, we'll meet again." he uttered under his breath.

He hoped that the day would come soon.


End file.
